by Karen Clarke
‘And does a family figure in your future, Meg?’
‘Um, one day, yes, probably.’ I didn’t want a prospective buyer put off by the thought of me immediately going on maternity leave. ‘It’s not on the agenda for a few years yet.’ I spread meringue on one half of the cake and raked the top into crests with a fork. ‘But I hope I’d be able to carry on working when I do have children.’
‘Would you say baking is a gift or a vocation?’
‘I’d say nursing or teaching’s a vocation.’ I slid the half of the cake with the topping into the oven to brown, and set the timer again. ‘Baking’s more of a hobby. I’m just lucky I’m able to make a living at it. At least, I hope that’s what I can carry on doing.’
‘Well, I’d say you have a gift, Meg, one that brings a lot of pleasure to a lot of people, and I hope one day to come back and find you running the Old Bakery.’
‘Thank you, Alice.’ She really was excellent at her job. ‘I’d love to buy it myself, but can’t afford it.’ Too honest? ‘Not with a wedding to pay for.’ Had I just smiled or grimaced?
‘Ah yes, weddings can be so expensive,’ Alice agreed. ‘Although they don’t have to be. Hubby and I went retro with a registry office do, and a fish and chip supper afterwards. Hardly cost a penny.’
Now I felt like a bridezilla, when Sam’s mum was the one urging us to splash the cash on the ‘most special day of our lives’.
‘Sounds lovely,’ I said wistfully.
‘Where are you planning to honeymoon? We had a fun weekend in Blackpool, and found a marvellous “hidden gem” of a guesthouse. The landlady was a magician!’
‘Oh, we haven’t got that far yet.’ It struck me that Sam might not like me airing our plans to the nation, and I turned to take the strawberries and whipped cream out of the fridge, welcoming the blast of cool air on my face. ‘I’m totally focused on work at the moment.’ Keen to get my ‘interview’ back on track, I went on, ‘Baking means an early start every morning, and I love that quiet hour or two before most people’s day really begins—’
‘Meg, we’re wrapping up now.’
I turned. ‘Oh, right.’ I reached back into the fridge and took out the cake I’d made earlier, pleased it looked so professional.
‘If you could pop it on the counter and just run through the ingredients for the viewers, that would be great, Meg. Then we’ll do a shot of me tucking in, if you have a spare fork.’
‘Of course.’ I grabbed one out of the drawer, and must have looked anxious because she smiled and added, ‘Don’t worry, this bit of our conversation won’t make the final cut.’ Most of it wouldn’t, I hoped. ‘Just take the cake across to the counter.’
I did as she asked and put it down carefully, then looked into the lens, as Alice had instructed, and reeled off the ingredients and cooking times, remembering to smile the whole time. Hopefully, my future boss was watching and would see me as the perfect face of the bakery.
‘I’m sure when your book comes out we’ll all be rushing to buy it,’ said Alice, before forking a mouthful of cake between her tastefully pink-glossed lips.
‘Oh, I don’t want to do a cookbook, there are enough out there already.’
‘Your own TV programme, then.’ She dabbed some cream from the corner of her mouth with her little finger and dug into the cake again. ‘Folks, I think we’ve found the next winner of Bake Off.’
‘Oh no, I don’t want to be on television, I mean, not in a competitive way.’ The timer pinged again, and I rushed to the oven with a sense of anticlimax now that it didn’t matter. ‘Really, I want to be back in the bakery—’
‘Cut!’ shouted Alice, through a mouthful of nutty cake topping. Tearing off some kitchen roll, she delicately spat into it and tossed the crumpled sheet into the bin. ‘That was amazing, Meg.’ She squeezed my arm, looking as cool and composed as when she’d entered the kitchen – unlike the cameraman, whose already ruddy face had turned damson. I was certain I had sweat on my upper lip, but couldn’t bear to check while Alice was studying me with such open admiration. ‘I really admire your honesty, and wish you all the luck in the world.’ She deftly scooped her bag over her shoulder. ‘You signed the consent form?’
I nodded. It had been emailed to me, along with the questionnaire.
‘Can we do a few shots of the shop itself, so potential buyers can imagine what it will look like, and maybe we can get the agency details too so anyone interested can get in touch.’
‘That would be great,’ I said, hope surging as I led them through, making sure they got a good view of the shelves and cabinets I hoped very soon would be bursting with loaves and cakes again.
‘We’ll give it all a good edit, don’t worry,’ Alice said when they’d finished, even though I hadn’t been worried until she said it. ‘Make sure you watch later, and brace yourself for lots of lovely publicity.’ Her smile grew. ‘I’d say you’ve been one of our best ever guests.’
She probably said that to them all, but I swelled up a little all the same. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’re just as lovely in real life.’ It sounded too gushy but she smiled serenely, probably used to being gushed at.
‘Hey, good luck with the wedding,’ she said as we moved back to the kitchen, away from the curious stares we’d been attracting through the shop window. She gave an exaggerated wink. ‘I hope he’s as cute as that lovely estate agent guy.’
‘Oh, he’s much cuter,’ I said, turning in time to see Nathan move away from the rear door.
‘Well, thanks again, Meg, and good luck.’ Unaware that my stomach had nosedived, Alice shook my sticky hand before leaving with a friendly wave, turning down my offer to take the cake with a rueful smile.
There followed a couple of awkward minutes while the cameraman fiddled with the lighting and cables, catching his bag on the edge of the counter as he left. The cake slid to the floor with a squelch, and I stared at the mess of strawberries and crumbs with the sinking conviction that, not only had I upset Nathan, I’d just given the worst interview of my life.
Chapter Eight
‘Could you please pass the gravy, Meg?’
I reached for the china boat and passed it to Beverley. She took it without a word and sloshed brown liquid over her beef and Yorkshire puddings. Even during a heatwave, Sam’s mum cooked a roast every Sunday lunchtime.
‘How’s the training going, Sam?’ asked Neil.
‘Good.’ Sam stopped shovelling carrots in his mouth long enough to glance at his dad. ‘I’ll be in Paris this time tomorrow.’
‘Will it be hot over there, love?’ Still not looking at me, Beverley handed Sam the dish of roast potatoes. He relaxed his healthy eating a little on a Sunday, and after dinner would allow himself a child’s sized portion of fruit crumble and a drizzle of custard.
‘I expect so.’ He took care not to graze my hand with his as he picked up his knife and began to cut up his meat. ‘It might be even hotter.’
‘I’d love to go to Paris,’ said Sadie, propping her chin on her hand. ‘It looks soooo romantic.’ Aged eighteen, with a cloud of honey-blonde hair and puppy-brown eyes, Sam’s youngest sister was training to be a make-up artist at South Devon College, and was normally full of recommendations about lipsticks to suit my skin tone, and what sort of mascara to wear, but even she hadn’t looked at me properly since I’d arrived. I was surprised by how much it hurt.
I’d always enjoyed the Ryan Sunday lunches, enjoying the banter and laughter around the table, and being part of a family who’d welcomed me with open arms, but today, I’d rather have been anywhere else.
‘Isn’t anyone going to address the elephant in the room?’ said Maura, refilling her mother’s wine glass and topping up her own. ‘No one’s mentioned the celebrity in our midst.’
The word was said with unwarranted venom, considering a week ago Sam’s oldest sister had been trying to persuade me to advertise my cake making to a wider audience, and offering her newly-fledged PR skills at a ‘discount’
.
‘I just can’t believe you spoke like that about the wedding, sweetheart.’ Beverley bounced up from the table to open the French doors, then bounced back down on her chair. Everything about Beverley was bouncy, from her mass of curly blonde hair and generous bosom, to her dangly sliver and pearl earrings. ‘You made it sound like you were being forced into it, love, when all we’re trying to do is give you what you want.’
‘It was a bit of a slap in the face,’ agreed Maura. Their disapproval was like a blast of cold air, and my confidence started to crumple under the force of it. ‘I’m wondering whether I should even be organising your hen party.’ I haven’t asked you to, I felt like saying, but Maura could be a bit scary when riled. ‘Not that you’ve shown much interest.’
‘Maura,’ Sam said warningly, even though he’d been cool with me since watching the show on Friday evening after he got back from training. Recalling his thunderstruck silence as the credits rolled made my blood run cold, in spite of the steam rising from my dinner.
‘I can’t believe that was you, Meg,’ he’d said, with the look of a man who’d narrowly avoided being hit by a bus. ‘All the effort Mum went to, to help us find the right venue, and you’re worried there might not be snow on our wedding day.’
‘That’s not exactly what I said.’
‘It’s what it sounded like to me, and probably to everyone who saw it.’
I hadn’t even wanted him to watch it, in the end. Not after I’d sat through the show at Mum’s, peering from behind a cushion when my face appeared. I’d already banned Cassie and Tilly from joining us, too nervous of their reactions, and Mum had turned away a protesting Kath at my request.
At first, I’d been pleasantly surprised that I’d looked so… normal. Attractive even – though it was true that the camera added pounds – not at all shiny-faced or crazy-haired, and the bakery kitchen had looked as quaint and appealing as I’d hoped.
Even Mum had stopped squirming with embarrassment and told me how beautiful I looked, and how proud of me she was. ‘You look so professional,’ she’d exclaimed, tears bulging in her eyes, and I’d snuggled against her on the sofa and allowed her to turn the sound on.
That had been my biggest mistake. After watching open-mouthed the segment where I was talking, Mum had shot up to her bedroom where she’d pretended to be tidying her already tidy room. ‘Why did you say all those things about me?’ She’d practically thumped her pillow. ‘All that stuff about your smelly blanket, and me being a desperate, clingy Mum, mourning the dead love of her life.’ Her eyes had bounced off mine, as though the sight of me hurt. ‘It sounded so dreadful.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’ I’d been on the verge of tears myself. ‘I was really nervous and started babbling about the first thing that came to mind. I honestly didn’t think they’d keep that in.’ After all the years of good behaviour, making sure she never had reason to worry or feel bad, she was viciously fluffing her duvet and trying not to cry – because of me.
‘That was the first thing that came into your head?’ She’d dropped onto her flower-patterned duvet and studied her neatly trimmed nails. ‘I didn’t think you thought about your father, or whether I should have had another relationship.’
‘Oh, Mum, I don’t.’
‘There was someone once, a customer at the library,’ she’d blurted. ‘He turned out to be married as well, so it didn’t go very far.’
I hadn’t mentioned that I’d suspected as much, because for a while she’d started wearing more make-up to work, and singing a lot in the bath.
‘Nobody knows about your father, apart from you and Kath. I’m not proud that I fell in love with a man who was about to be married.’ Her eyes had brimmed with tears again. ‘You know I blame myself that he died.’
‘I know, Mum, even though you shouldn’t.’ She’d let me take her hand. ‘It was all so long ago, and…’ I’d been about to say that it probably wouldn’t matter that I’d talked about her private life, as she hardly ever went out so was unlikely to bump into anyone she knew. ‘It’s in the past,’ I’d finished, weakly.
‘What will Good Life think? They won’t want me anywhere near their accounts after this.’
‘It’s not going to make any difference to them, Mum, what happened in the past.’
I’d placed an arm around her shaking shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘And what was all that about a family not being on the agenda?’ She’d twisted to look at me, her forehead creased. ‘I thought you were going to get pregnant after the wedding.’
‘I just said that in response to Alice’s question, because I thought it might put off a potential buyer if I said I was planning to have a baby next year.’
‘And you’re planning to work full-time afterwards?’
‘I never said I wasn’t, Mum. People do these days.’ I’d squeezed her hand, desperate to put a smile back on her face. ‘I’ll have you to help out, won’t I?’
‘That’s true.’
‘Anyway, I doubt anyone will have watched the programme. It’s such lovely weather, they’ll all have been outdoors.’
‘Local people will watch it, Meg.’ Mum’s frown had reappeared. ‘Everyone who lives in Seashell Cove will have seen it.’
‘We live in Salcombe.’
‘But you work over there.’ She’d pulled a tissue from the box on her nightstand. ‘God knows what Sam will say when he hears you don’t want a winter wedding.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
But he’d clearly taken it the same way, leaving the room in the middle of my fumbled apology and refusing to discuss it further, and things had been frosty since. He hadn’t commented on the rest of my interview, or my cake, which had looked good if I said so myself. He’d clearly zoned in on the wedding stuff, and blocked out everything else.
On Saturday, he’d risen early and announced with a pained expression that he was fitting in an early training session with Chris and that I ‘should have a think’. Words that had prompted me to invite Cassie and Tilly over.
‘It’s not like you said anything terrible,’ Cassie had said, once we were settled in the garden with cold drinks. ‘You looked amazing, and sounded really natural. I thought it was cute the way you talked about your mum, and Twitter loved it. There were some lovely comments about your dress, and you looking like a young, blonde Nigella, and people were saying you were a credit to your mum, and to Seashell Cove.’
‘Really?’ It hadn’t even occurred to me to look online. I was a bit of a dinosaur when it came to social media, and although I had a Facebook account, I rarely posted anything. ‘I thought, if anything, I’d get trollied.’
‘You mean, trolled. And, honestly, you came across really well, we were so proud of you.’
Tilly had nodded her agreement. ‘It was a bit Jeremy Kyle, but in a good way.’
‘Tilly! You don’t think the personal stuff distracted from the bit about the bakery being for sale?’
‘There’ll be a follow-up piece in the local paper, I’m sure they’ll give it a mention.’
‘They did a piece when the bakery closed down, but that didn’t do any good.’
‘It’s early days yet,’ she’d said. ‘Have you heard from Nathan?’
His name had prompted a panicky, ‘No of course not, not yet. I haven’t spoken to him, it’s the weekend. I expect he’ll call on Monday. Or I’ll give him a ring. Or not. I expect he’ll call me if there’s been any interest.’
Tilly’s mouth had twitched, and she’d made wide-eyes at Cassie.
‘As long as you-know-who doesn’t get her claws into the place.’ Cassie had inclined her head next door, even though we were at my house and not my mum’s and Freya now lived in Totnes, in a gated house with a swimming pool that Kath had only seen once. ‘Can you really see her running an ice-cream parlour?’
Before I could reply, Tilly had leant forward, her sunglasses dropping from her head to the tip of her nose. ‘Have you really changed your mi
nd about a winter wedding?’
I’d managed to convince her and Cassie that I hadn’t; I’d simply meant that, with hindsight, it was unlikely to snow on my actual wedding day, and I’d been naive to think otherwise.
I’d said much the same to Sam – for at least the tenth time – on the drive to his parents’ house in Kingsbridge, desperate to break the brooding silence that had reigned since his cycling session, but he’d only tightened his lips in response.
And now his family was giving me the silent treatment, too. At least, they had been.
‘You saw the show then?’ I said. It was a poor attempt at a joke, because nothing involving the Ryan family went unnoticed. Beverley had invited us to watch it at their house and had sounded miffed when I turned her down, explaining I was going to Mum’s. She got on with Mum, when they’d met in the past, but didn’t understand her reluctance to leave the house. ‘Can’t think of anything worse than staring at the same four walls,’ she’d once said, on her way to a Zumba class, as if Mum was just being difficult.
‘You looked like you were showing off a bit for the camera,’ Maura was saying, doing an exaggerated wiggle of her shoulders. ‘Sashaying about all sexily, like Nigella.’ I wondered whether she’d been drinking before we arrived. There was a lot of socialising in her new PR job, which she’d taken to rather well.
‘Hey, how come when Nigella pretends to sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night in her dressing gown to eat some fudge cake out of the fridge, she doesn’t notice there’s a cameraman in her kitchen?’
To my relief, everyone laughed, including Sam.
‘Good point,’ said Neil, stabbing a parsnip with his fork. Square-jawed and jug-eared, with an affable smile, his only resemblance to Sam was the colour of his close-cut blond hair. Personality-wise, Sam was more like his mum. ‘Enough to give anyone a heart attack.’